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Cakes & Ale, A Dissertation on Banquets Interspersed with Various Recipes, More or Less Original, and anecdotes, mainly veracious

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<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> <h3>LUNCHEON</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “’Tis a custom More honoured in the breach than the observance.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Why lunch?—Sir Henry Thompson on overdoing it—The children’s dinner—City lunches—Ye Olde Cheshyre Cheese—Doctor Johnson—Ye pudding—A great fall in food—A snipe pudding—Skirt, not rump steak—Lancashire hot pot—A Cape “brady.” </blockquote> “‘More honoured in the breach,’ do you say, Mr. Author?” I fancy I hear some reader inquire. “Are these your sentiments? Do you really mean them?” Well, perhaps, they ought to be qualified. Unless a man breakfast very early, and dine very late, he cannot do himself much good by eating a square meal at 1.30 or 2.0 P.M. There can be no question but that whilst thousands of the lieges—despite soup-kitchens, workhouses, and gaols—perish of absolute starvation, as many of their more fortunate brethren perish, in the course of time, from gluttony, from falling down (sometimes literally) and worshipping the Belly-god. [Pg 35] Years ago Sir Henry Thompson observed to a friend of the writer’s: “Most men who seek my advice are suffering under one of two great evils—eating too much good food, or drinking too much bad liquor; and occasionally they suffer under both evils.” “This luncheon,” writes Oliver Wendell Holmes, “is a very convenient affair; it does not require any special dress; it is informal; and can be light or heavy as one chooses.” The American—the male American at all events—takes far more count of luncheon than of breakfast. But in many cases luncheon and early dinner are synonymous terms. Take the family luncheon, for instance, of the middle classes, where mother, governess, and little ones all assemble in front of the roast and boiled, at the principal meal of the day, and the more or less snowy tablecloth is duly anointed with gravy by “poor baby,” in her high chair, and the youngest but one is slapped at intervals by his instructress, for using his knife for the peas—at the risk of enlarging his mouth—or for swallowing the stones of the cherries which have been dealt him, or her, from the tart. This is not the sort of meal for the male friend of the family to “drop in” at, if he value the lapels of his new frock-coat, and be given to blushing. For children have not only an evil habit of “pawing” the visitor with jammy fingers, but occasionally narrate somewhat “risky” anecdotes. And a child’s ideas of the Christian religion, nay, of the Creator[Pg 36] himself, are occasionally more quaint than reverent. “Ma, dear,” once lisped a sweet little thing of six, “what doth God have for hith dinner?” “S-sh-sh, my child!” replied the horrified mother, “you must not ask such dreadful questions. God doesn’t want any dinner, remember that.” “Oh-h-h!” continued the unabashed and dissatisfied enfant terrible. And, after a pause, “then I thuppose he hath an egg with hith tea.” In a country-house, of course, but few of the male guests turn up at the domestic luncheon, being otherwise engaged in killing something, or in trying to kill something, or in that sport which is but partially understood out of Great Britain—the pursuit of an evil-savoured animal who is practically worthless to civilisation after his capture and death. It is in “the City” that vile man, perhaps, puts in his best work as an eater of luncheons. Some city men there be, of course—poor, wretched, half-starved clerks, whose state nobody ever seems to attempt to ameliorate—whose midday refections are not such as would have earned a meed of commendation from the late Vitellius, or from the late Colonel North. For said refections but seldom consist of more important items than a thick slice of bread and a stale bloater; or possibly a home-made sandwich of bread and Dutch cheese—the whole washed down with a tumbler of milk, or more often a tumbler of the fluid supplied by the New River Company. During the winter months a pennyworth[Pg 37] of roasted chestnuts supplies a filling, though indigestible meal to many a man whose employer is swilling turtle at Birch’s or at the big house in Leadenhall Street, and who is compelled, by the exigencies of custom, to wear a decent black coat and some sort of tall hat when on his way to and from “business.” But the more fortunate citizens—how do they “do themselves” at luncheon? For some there is the cheap soup-house, or the chop-and-steak house reviled of Dickens, and but little changed since the time of the great novelist. Then, for the “gilt-edged” division there is <h4>Birch’s,</h4> the little green house which, although now “run” by those eminent caterers, Messrs. Ring and Brymer, is still known by the name of the old Alderman who deserved so well of his fellow citizens, and who, whilst a cordon bleu of some celebrity, had also a pretty taste as a playwright. The old house has not changed one jot, either in appearance, customs, or fare. At the little counter on the ground floor may be obtained the same cheesecakes, tartlets, baked custards, and calf’s-foot jellies which delighted our grandfathers, and the same brand of Scottish whisky. Upstairs, in the soup-rooms, some of the tables are covered with damask tablecloths, whilst at others a small square of napery but partially obscures the view of the well-polished mahogany. [Pg 38] <h4>Turtle Soup</h4> is still served on silver plates, whilst the cheaper juices of the bullock, the calf, and the pea, “with the usual trimmings,” repose temporarily on china or earthenware. Pâtés, whether of oyster, lobster, chicken, or veal-and-ham, are still in favour with habitué and chance customer alike, and no wonder, for these are something like pâtés. The “filling” is kept hot like the soups, in huge stewpans, on the range, and when required is ladled out into a plate, and furnished with top and bottom crust—and such crust, flaky and light to a degree; and how different to the confectioner’s or railway-refreshment pâté, which, when an orifice be made in the covering with a pickaxe, reveals nothing more appetising than what appear to be four small cubes of frost-bitten india-rubber, with a portion or two of candle end. A more advanced meal is served in Leadenhall Street, at <h4>“The Ship and Turtle,”</h4> said to be the oldest tavern in London, and which has been more than once swept and garnished, and reformed altogether, since its establishment during the reign of King Richard II. But they could have known but little about the superior advantages offered by the turtle as a life-sustainer, in those days; whereas at the present day some hundreds of the succulent reptiles die the death on the premises, within a month, in order that city companies, and stockbrokers, and merchants of sorts, and mining[Pg 39] millionaires, and bicycle makers, and other estimable people, may dine and lunch. Then there are the numerous clubs, not forgetting one almost at the very door of “The House,” where the 2000 odd (some of them very odd) members are regaled on the fat of the land in general, and of the turtle in particular, day by day; and that mammoth underground palace the “Palmerston,” where any kind of banquet can be served up at a few minutes’ notice, and where “special Greek dishes” are provided for the gamblers in wheat and other cereals, at the adjacent “Baltic.” There be also other eating-houses, far too numerous to mention, but most of them worth a visit. A “filling” sort of luncheon is a portion of a <h4>Cheshire Cheese Pudding.</h4> A little way up a gloomy court on the north side of Fleet Street—a neighbourhood which reeks of printers’ ink, bookmakers’ “runners,” tipsters, habitual borrowers of small pieces of silver, and that “warm” smell of burning paste and molten lead which indicates the “foundry” in a printing works—is situated this ancient hostelry. It is claimed for the “Cheese” that it was the tavern most frequented by Dr. Samuel Johnson. Mr. C. Redding, in his Fifty Years’ Recollections, Literary and Personal, published in 1858, says: “I often dined at the <h4>“Cheshire Cheese.”</h4> Johnson and his friends, I was informed, used to do the same, and I was told I should see[Pg 40] individuals who had met them there. This I found to be correct. The company was more select than in later times, but there are Fleet Street tradesmen who well remembered both Johnson and Goldsmith in this place of entertainment.” Few Americans who visit our metropolis go away without making a pilgrimage to this ancient hostelry, where, upstairs, “Doctor Johnson’s Chair” is on view; and many visitors carry away mementoes of the house, in the shape of pewter measures, the oaken platters upon which these are placed, and even samples of the long “churchwarden” pipes, smoked by habitués after their evening chops or steaks. <h4>Ye Pudding,</h4> which is served on Wednesdays and Saturdays, at 1.30 and 6.0, is a formidable-looking object, and its savour reaches even into the uttermost parts of Great Grub Street. As large, more or less, as the dome of St. Paul’s, that pudding is stuffed with steak, kidney, oysters, mushrooms, and larks. The irreverent call these last named sparrows, but we know better. This pudding takes (on dit) 17½ hours in the boiling, and the “bottom crust” would have delighted the hearts of Johnson, Boswell, and Co., in whose days the savoury dish was not. The writer once witnessed a catastrophe at the “Cheshire Cheese,” compared to which the burning of Moscow or the bombardment of Alexandria were mere trifles. 1.30 on Saturday afternoon had arrived, and the oaken benches in the refectory were filled to repletion with expectant pudding-eaters.[Pg 41] Burgesses of the City of London were there—good, “warm,” round-bellied men, with plough-boys’ appetites—and journalists, and advertising agents, and “resting” actors, and magistrates’ clerks, and barristers from the Temple, and well-to-do tradesmen. Sherry and gin and bitters and other adventitious aids (?) to appetite had been done justice to, and the arrival of the “procession”—it takes three men and a boy to carry the pièce de résistance from the kitchen to the dining-room—was anxiously awaited. And then, of a sudden we heard a loud crash! followed by a feminine shriek, and an unwhispered Saxon oath. “Tom” the waiter had slipped, released his hold, and the pudding had fallen downstairs! It was a sight ever to be remembered—steak, larks, oysters, “delicious gravy,” running in a torrent into Wine Office Court. The expectant diners (many of them lunchers) stood up and gazed upon the wreck of their hopes, and then filed, silently and sadly, outside. Such a catastrophe had not been known in Brainland since the Great Fire. Puddings of all sorts are, in fact, favourite autumn and winter luncheon dishes in London, and the man who can “come twice” at such a “dream” as the following, between the hours of one and three, can hardly be in devouring trim for his evening meal till very late. It is a <h4>Snipe Pudding.</h4> [Pg 42] <blockquote> A thin slice of beef-skirt,[2] seasoned with pepper and salt, at the bottom of the basin; then three snipes beheaded and befooted, and with gizzards extracted. Leave the liver and heart in, an you value your life. Cover up with paste, and boil (or steam) for two-and-a-half hours. For stockbrokers and bookmakers, mushrooms and truffles are sometimes placed within this pudding; but it is better without—according to the writer’s notion. </blockquote> Most of the fowls of the air may be treated in the same way. And when eating cold grouse for luncheon try (if you can get it) a fruit salad therewith. You will find preserved peaches, apricots, and cherries in syrup, harmonise well with cold brown game. <h4>Lancashire Hot-Pot</h4> is a savoury dish indeed; but I know of but one eating-house in London where you can get anything like it. Here is the recipe— <blockquote> Place a layer of mutton cutlets, with most of the fat and tails trimmed off, at the bottom of a deep earthenware stewpan. Then a layer of chopped sheep’s kidneys, an onion cut into thin slices, half-a-dozen oysters, and some sliced potatoes. Sprinkle over these a little salt and pepper and a teaspoonful of curry powder. Then start again with cutlets, and keep on adding layers of the different ingredients until the dish be full. Whole potatoes atop of all, and pour in the oyster liquor and some good gravy. More gravy just before the dish is ready to serve.[Pg 43] Not too fierce an oven, just fierce enough to brown the top potatoes. </blockquote> In making this succulent concoction you can add to, or substitute for, the mutton cutlets pretty nearly any sort of flesh or fowl. I have met rabbit, goose, larks, turkey, and (frequently) beef therein; but, believe me, the simple, harmless, necessary, toothsome cutlet makes the best lining. In the Cape Colony, and even as high up as Rhodesia, I have met with a dish called a Brady, which is worthy of mention here. It is made in the same way as the familiar Irish stew; but instead of potatoes tomatoes are used. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 44] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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